Eskel the Witcher
by ChamuelthePeacful
Summary: 'Though Eskel never gained Geralt's renown, he equaled the White Wolf in experience and carried out his contracts with care and efficiency.' Eskel is a Witcher, plain and simple, killing monsters and collecting coin as he was raised to. He doesn't get involved in politics, choose sides or sleep with sorceresses. But what's his story? Where is he when Geralt is out saving the world?
1. 1226: Kaer Morhen

Disclaimer: Based on some preliminary research about Kaer Morhen, Eskel and the School of the Wolf, I came across a sentence from 'The World of the Witcher' by CDProject Red which reads as follows. 'Kaer Morhen was destroyed during an outbreak of purges against the Witcher, probably near the end of the twelfth century.' Which likely places these events (at least by Game Canon standards) around 1190 rather than the dates I'm giving. I choose this because number one, this is fan-fiction and I can write it how I wish, and two, my interpretation based on the Game Lore is Geralt is close to a century old. So I'm going to say, by Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, he's around ninety-six years old. Eskel was in Geralt's generation of Witchers so I'll be placing him around the same age. Based on that by 1190 they'd just be in their late teens and still training so that and with Lambert being younger makes this whole theory implausible in my mind. It is a minor detail in the grand scheme of things, but I feel I need to explain myself to anyone who knows the Witcher lore inside and out. I suppose a possible theory is that Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert taught after the School of the Wolf had been attacked, but that creates more questions in my mind that I don't want to be making up lore about to answer. We can disagree about Geralt's exact age as he may be younger in the books, but generally, I want to make this fan-fiction as close to book/game canon as I can. So if anyone has some lore facts that don't line up with what I'm writing I'd be welcome to reading them and trying to incorporate them into my fan-fiction. Otherwise, just enjoy these stories about Eskel's life or be a grammar nazi in every review.

Extra disclaimer: I do not claim any ownership of the official 'Witcher' license, for the books, comics, TTRPG or game (including any other officially published works of the Witcher).

Edit: This chapter has been updated after extra reviewing, grammer and spelling corrections, as well as additional paragraphs at the end to better set the scene for future chapters.

1226 Kaer Morhen

Galloping hard towards the hidden path, with Scorpion is breathing heavily, foam bubbling from his mouth, and him tossing his head in protest, my grip tightens on his reins. The leather contracts and squeaks in my hands as I clench my teeth in frustration, stress and fear. A fear I never thought could be possible, a situation that not even my worst nightmares could conjure from the abyss.

I can only try to slow my heart rate, eyes squeezed in concentration I think of my destination, of my home Kaer Morhen. I can hear old Barmin's voice repeating the same phrase he drilled into all his students, pacing back and forth in front of us in the Bastion. 'The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown. It is proof of our humanity, no matter how much others will deny that fact, but you're to harness that fear, and never let it overtake you.'

Opening my eyes, while my body is still on edge, my mind has calmed, at least a little. 'Too bad Axii can't be cast on yourself.' I thought in the back of my mind. 'It'd have been helpful in a few situations. But I have to remain focused.'

The journey from the small Redanian city of Ghelibol, through the cold, snow-laden Kestrel mountains, and sprinting across the Kedweni countryside had left us both exhausted. The land was preparing for the approaching winter, as the trees changed colour and the harvests' were finishing. If it weren't for that letter, I'd have not left the Keep in the first place, journeying halfway across the continent to deliver it before the snows made the roads impassable.

Since receiving the message, I've barely rested for more than a few minutes at a time to allow Scorpion a breather. My leather armour and hemp clothing are soaked in sweat, who's I'm not entirely sure, from the black leather gloves on my hands to the daconoid leather of my boots. They're giving me saddle blisters on my arse, causing sharp stings with every stride. Salt encrusted black bangs obscure my trembling vision as old aspen, birch and cedar trees fly by in a russet, crimson and amber blur.

The trail ahead steadily becomes steeper with more protruding stones, barring Scorpion from galloping like a true thoroughbred. The Path continues by the bank of a familiar small mountain stream. Its moss-covered rocks and clear waters look so tempting to rest in and recover in. Memories flash of times spent in that same stream to recover after a particularly gruelling treck out of Kaer Morhen. I'm forced to my head away, facing rocky track ahead. Even as my back aches, my legs become increasingly numb from the saddle, the ominous feeling of dread deep in my stomach won't go away.

'It can't be real, it has to be some kind of sick joke.' I try to tell myself, convince myself that there is no way any Witcher School could have been attacked. Nobody could be so bold and suicidal to go up against a castle populated with mutated, professional monster killers. It is unthinkable that a crowd of unruly peasants with a bone to pick against the Witcher profession would storm the Keep. Even with the teachings of Monsterum spread through the Northern Kingdoms, it's what most humans have said under their breath, to our faces in taverns, or in whispers, for centuries.

Finally, fifty yards ahead, I see the old stone marker, which symbolises the beginning of 'the Killer' and its winding route up, and into the hidden mountain valley. Situated beneath a small gove, in the shade of an old oak tree, its easily missed as the trail continues in other directions which are maintained by the local deer and goats. The elvish symbols, carved in long before Witchers existed, are now covered with orange lichen, but its location is drilled into every Wolf the walks the Path.

Pulling Scorpion to a halt, his heavy breathing now a wheeze, I notice odd signs around the tall smooth shard of granite. There is usually only a faint sign of activity in the area, we're taught from trainees that keeping the Wolf School's location a secret is its best form of defence. There is only one maintained route in or out of the Kaer Morhen valley, and that is this thin goat path. Yet, something is out of place. Instead of tall grasses, untouched trees and undisturbed leaf litter around the stone, there are signs of a lot of activity. The old oak's bark has been scraped and bashed, attacked with tools or weapons like a training dummy. The grass is laid flat, with their stems broken and blades smashed from so many stomping feet. Then the leaves, once a balanced and level pile under the trees, now are spread and scattered, showing boot and footprints in the soft soil.

I swing off his back and immediately crouch on one knee. Placing my gloved hand on the ground, I close my eyes and allow my mutated senses to take hold. I can smell the scent of humans, mud, piss, and shit. The signs appear to be a week or two old, with the scents faint from the passage of time. Along with the smell of strong liquor, there is a dull metallic smell too. Opening my eyes, I search with the cat-like irises, that those in my profession are known for.

I spy faint grey dust and a couple of whetstones left among the grasses. 'A few of the men had sharpened their weapons in preparation it appears.' I say aloud to Scorpion.

But that is not what draws my attention. Standing up slowly and gingerly walking, my paces lead toward a black streak on the ground in front of the stone marker, I freeze misstep as my mind hastily concludes an answer, before examining every piece of evidence. Quickly turning my head, my body tense, the signs on 'the Killer' further ahead make my heart sink once more. For there are no more than two sets of new shoe prints in the grass, not the hundreds the evidence left behind tell me there should have been. I could assume that perhaps they didn't know the path and didn't go this way to Kaer Morhen, but that distinctive black mark of burnt grass and ethereal dust is left by one wicked spell. Portals.

'Even Dumund would be impressed by my pace' I thought faintly, as I jogged south along the moonlit lakeside, its waters so glassy that I can see my reflection within. Past the old hermit hut at its southern bank, I notice the open wooden door of the weatherworn shack. It's smeared with bloodied hand-prints, and a pair of bare feet are just beyond the entrance to its dim interior. 'He only brewed mead and talked to us.' I thought with dread, finally nearing the castle, coming closer Kaer Morhen.

Trying to continue the pace I'd set hours age, I allow my shallow breaths to become thicker and more steady. A bloodied silver sword remained in place in my right hand, its tip behind me, and in a reverse grip, readied for more action. Even Witcher Schools weren't safe from the monsters that still roamed these isolated peaks. Those childhood experiences of 'The Choice' made me wary of going along 'the Killer' unarmed. Neckers, Trolls, even Wyverns nested in these locations far from humanity's interference. A couple of the former thought I'd make an easy meal. It was a fatal mistake on their part.

The monsters were another source of protection from most mundane travellers and threats if the idea of Witchers wasn't frightening enough. But even with the Blue Mountains, that steal the air from your lungs at their icy summits, Kaer Morhen's mighty walls carved out of the surrounding stone, and hostile, territorial wildlife, always on the prowl... there are still other ways of reaching the valley. Especially with magic.

That was the only way for Sorcerers and normal humans to come to the School of the Wolf without Witcher protection. Portals, a Mages preferred travel method, as much as a Witcher's is by horseback.

'Their utility is matched only by their danger. That's like saying a pissed off bear is cute, although dangerous.' as Geralt continually reminds me. Always hated portals, but for a good reason.

With the risk of injury or death from any spell ever-present, portals are especially dangerous when you're moving from one place in this world to another, as you could leave a limb behind from where you came from, or possibly become lost in the nothingness between reality. Yet with incredibly powerful magic users, they can travel with groups over short distances, say through a mountain range, and go back for more reinforcements.

The sight that greeted me, in the twilight mists rising from the lake, was one that horrified me. Kaer Morhen, a large, grand keep, originally it'd been built upon an old elven settlement. The visage of its structure can be easily seen across the entire valley, from the workshop watchtower to the north, to the still-operating signal tower to the south. The latter guarding the river fords to the south that lead to Kaedwen's borders, and the former, 'the Killer's' treacherous Path. These towers act as an early warning system for visitors or travelling Witchers. A couple of dozen humans are even employed to help maintain the keep, cook, clean and craft silver swords for our trade, as well as a couple of resident sorcerers for the more magical and mutagenic tasks. Then there is the Bastion where we would spend countless hours training with Witchers and other recruits to refine our swordsmanship and reflexes in one on one or one on four combat. It is tiny in comparison to the Keep itself but still provided plenty of room for kids nearing their teens.

Now Kaer Morhen's grand towers and walls looked as though siege engines had used them for target practice. Most had collapsed or looked near to collapsing under their weight and impaired structural integrity. Each with entire destroyed sections now exposing the inner stairways.

In spots, the mortar and granite appeared to have been scorched black and slightly melted.

The Baston was in even worse shape, seemingly only it's stone structure intact, everything else demolished or burned. Soot and ash covered the courtyard, and burnt heaps of wood spread around.

The gatehouse had received less damage, but the drawbridge was lowered, its chains hanging limp, with no tension to show its inner pulley was active. A large portcullis had been dropped, the tick stout bars made from a small iron mine in the valley. Each bar an inch thick, three inches wide, and spanning the entire archway entrance. But it now had a hole big enough for Scorpion to walk through. The warped metal bending inwards as if they were now grasping fingers. This showed it was more than an actual attack by peasants if the portal signs hadn't been enough in the first place.

Strolling towards the drawbridge, I could smell the pungent aroma of rotting flesh, human flesh. There is nothing quite like that sweet, disgusting musk. It causes memories to flash of my first monster contract after leaving Kaer Morhen. Drowners, a small hamlet with no name, and an entire family of fishermen, and the lifeless eyes of a little girl, barely eight years old. Shaking my at the ancient thought, and looking down into the moat below, my pupils' dilation adjusting accordingly. In the low glow of the full moon, I can see what I'd expected, corpses. Some of them recognised Barmin's grey beard, Vamin's black bandanna, and Gwen's top-knot of brown hair. Others were too mutilated and burned for me to even tell if they were Witchers at all. Only their armour and clothing distinguished them from a common man. And it wasn't only Witchers, but a few of the servants employed at the Keep as well. Their bodies showed some particularly gruesome signs of torture with small burns, missing appendages and flayed skin, now being chewed on by giant grey rats.

I closed my eyes at the grotesque scene and took a deep shuddering breath, clenching my fist around the sword's haft. 'They aren't all gone,' I whispered under my breath hoarsely. 'There are still those on the Path. Geralt included...and he...he can take care of himself.'

Taking one more deep breath, I slowly walk into the gatehouse, the smell of burnt wood and ash obscuring what is in the moat.

Entering the outer bailey, I finally find someone on this battlefield that is my home. Vesimir sits on a small chair, his right leg in a wooden splint, and his left arm was in a sling with cloth bandages wrapped tightly around his forearm. Geralt is a surprise to see, as well as Lembert, both were supposed to be working on a contract in Dun Banner. They all look worse for wear, but alive.

All three of them were staring into a fire pit, apparently using the remains of the wreckage that was the training yard. Looking around I could see nothing in the bailey, nor likely the interior of the Keep had been spared the rioters, looters, peasants, soldiers...whoever they were. I shook my head in disbelief, still not quite believing what I was seeing. My home, the only family I'd ever really known, was ravaged.

My brothers, the people I counted as a family were almost all gone. In one night, this supposed haven for even the despised Witchers, had been attacked. It'd been damaged, destroyed, from the small watchtowers to the grand Keep itself. Supposedly as strong as the mountains it'd been crafted from. This symbol of peace and serenity that I'd once hated as a child, a prison to my adolescent mind. But I had grown fond of Kaer Morhen over time, grown to love for the people, and the friendships I'd built. The scaffolds we'd race competitively for the best hunk of a stag during dinners, the large table we'd all eat at and get blackout drunk in the wintertime. Swapping stories of monsters we'd faced, and toasting to our recently fallen brothers, whose memories we kept alive through tales and song.

'Eskel?' Geralt's gruff tone brings me out of the pit melancholy I was calmly sliding into. The dust-covered expressions on his face showed a sombre mood, shared by Lambert and Vesimir, as they all stare into the flickering flames, their minds elsewhere.

Geralt points to another chair beside himself and gestures towards a large mug of Redanian Lager. I quickly catch on and sheath my sword on my back in a practised motion. Taking my seat, then a long swig from the beer, I stare into the flames with everyone else. Though we're all likely to use our own time and space to reconcile with ourselves what has just happened, we're still a family, and we'll need each other more than we realise right now if we're going to live in this new world of ours. If we're not the only Witcher school that has been attacked, then it appears Witchers may have gone from hunters to the hunted.

As I look into the flames, I think about how I'm reacting to...this. Everything. Why am I not going mad with rage, sobbing at the injustice, or even cursing to the gods themselves at this whole unjust act? I do feel my fist clenching hard, the handle of my mug begins to bend as the metal gives way to my mutated strength.

'Is this what I must expect now? To now be actively targeted if I leave Kaer Morhen? To be wary of sleeping too soundly for fear of someone ramming a pitchfork into my chest, or a blast of fire snuffing out my life as a frog does to a fly? Is that to be my fate, not to die in combat but to someday be slaughtered in my sleep unprepared?' These thoughts roll through my head, as I feel the very surface of controlled emotions boiling within.

Looking around and realising that morning has come, the fortress seems worse than at night. Now I can see the blood spatters on the grounds and the walls. It reinforces the fact that this place is no longer safe, at least for now. Whomever the assailants were, they thought we'd all be here right now, but they didn't wait until winter though? When we were all guaranteed to be at Kaer Morhen till the snows melted. Perhaps even the harshness of the seasons is too much for their magic to handle? Too much of a strain? And who are 'they'?

Looking at the hot coals that were once a roaring fire, and my empty mug, I can see there are a few possibilities on how to proceed. Continue to walk The Path as always, but more suspicious of everyone's intention. Never return to Kaer Morhen, and set out past the dunes to the East, away from this life and to find a new path. Or, at least for now, choose to stray from The Path. For the gods and the devoted may teach forgiveness, but I am not a human. The Elves and Dwarves either adapt to the human ways, fight in the forests, or forge their kingdoms. But nor am I of the Elder Races. I am a mutant, a freak of experimental magics that luckily didn't turn me into a monster like the very ones I hunt.

And whom could have committed a massacre, then a group of monsters. For the first time in weeks, I smile. But it wasn't a pleasant smile, no, it was one that symbolised a new path for me. Vesemir, Lambert, Geralt, and whoever else that still lived would not be involved. This would be something that's simply a professional goal, but also one with personal intent.

But I wouldn't go at it alone, it was time to check in on some old friends and call upon a few favours. For if they thought they'd hunt us, they were fatally mistaken.


	2. 1271: Rivia

Edit: This chapter has been updated with a number of grammar and spelling corrections.

1271 Lyria

Opening my eyes, I see the early morning light filtering through the leaves of the chestnut trees above. The light is slightly blinding at first, glittering through the gamboge leaves now beginning to have hints of scarlet amongst the canopy. A soft wind from the west brings with it a feeling of controlled humidity, aiding in dampening the already cold embers of the firepit to my left. I close my eyes and take in one slow, deep breath. The scents of wood ash, fallen chestnuts, and wild nettles reach my senses. The smells remind me that I should gather some supplies before finished my treck towards Lyria.

Sitting up and removing the thin grey blanket over my torso, I see Scorpion standing by a thicket of mulberries, apparently trying to wrap his tongue around the sweet little fruits one at a time. I chuckle at the sight which startles him, his ears perked up, and he quickly spins his body around.

I shake my head at his antics, but also feel grateful at how alert he can be to his surroundings. He has his faults but has adapted quickly to being a Witcher's mount. Close calls against small monsters have made him wary of letting his guard down while in forests. Even with there being little undergrowth from witch Neckers or Gouls can hide, he is still alert to his vicinity. 'Good thing too,' I say aloud. 'After yesterday I needed the rest, and... you make a decent night watchman.' Scorpion snorts and tosses his head at that comment, which I can only determine is a sarcastic response.

Standing up, I fold my makeshift bed of two grey, worn blankets and a small goose-down pillow with a delicately embroidered image of a red hound. Packing it all away neatly into Scorpion's saddlebags I smile at the bitter/sweet memories associated with that pillow. I choose to remove a couple of empty satchels and search around the area for anything worth collecting. Though there is little to be found that's useful for potions or bombs I do see a few dozen chestnuts which would likely be handy if I go without food again. Being low on money after the last tavern I went to, where they charged an arm and a leg for a few bottles of Nilfguardian Lemon, I would have to scrape by in the wild for a short time. The chestnuts are nutritious enough, better than an empty stomach, and plentiful as well with few villagers venturing this far into the forests in fear of Scoia'tael ambushes. A bush of nettles by Scorpion's mulberry grove is also handy for making a soothing herbal tea.

I feel satisfied with a couple of pounds of chestnuts collected, there are great many more, but with winter drawing close, the wildlife is likely to need the extra fodder to hibernate. A few squirrels were already competing over the remaining chestnuts as strapped on Scorpion's saddle. After placing the bridle over his head, I think about the mulberries he'd been snacking on and figure it wouldn't be the wrong way to break my fast. Yet a glance over at the very grove revealed he'd eaten all the berries within easy reach. An enquiring glance at Scorpion elicited a snort, of indignation I feel.

'You must have a bit of a sweet tooth, greedy guts.' I say in jest, smiling a little, and petting his nose.

I figured it wasn't worth rummaging through vines for a few choice berries, so after re-checking that my two swords buckled within easy reach and my supplies were stored securely, I check my casual gears' strapped up. My fingerless draconoid gloves were in good shape; still, it's stitching along the fingers was a bit worn but should hold up at least until I get back to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Tightening the yarn at my wrists, I saw my medallion was in place as always dangling within reach. Its silver alloy is worn a little after half a century of use but the wolf symbol of The School of the Wolf was ever-present, a reminder to anyone who saw it that I was a Witcher for hire, if the eyes weren't already a giveaway. My red and black armoured doublet had seen much action since I'd first had it crafted all those years ago. Its been plated with dark steel, woven out of high-quality hemp fibre and littered with small dimeritium spikes, its meant to last. A couple of grapeshot and moondust bombs I keep strapped to the back of my belt are nicely secured, along with a swallow and thunderbolt potion. My buckskin trousers are in good shape but needing oiling before the snows settle in. The thick steel knee pads need their straps replaced soon but are secure enough, they've saved me from hidden drowners more times than I can count. And finally, my Dragonoid leather boots are in an elegant shape, if you don't count their discolouration after stepping in a pool of Wyvern venom.

'Green's never quite been my colour, but I've never understood fashion, to begin with.' I think to myself and shrug. 'I'm a Witcher, the last thing people are going to criticize me on is the clothing I wear.'

All is ready, so I hoist my fully armoured self onto Scorpion's saddle. It's Nilfgardian design with small etchings, and subtle embroidery does make my stead look intimidating. Being a black Redanian Warhorse, he is to have an intimidation factor. Brave, stubborn and strong, he does his Scorpion predecessors proud. With a quick kick, I spur him on to make good pace through these trees and east, towards Lyria.

The Lyrian countryside at this time of the year is bustling with people and activity. The freeholders and serfs appear to have a bumper harvest this year, with teams of men and animals out bringing in the early crops of wheat, rye, and oats. Its labour-intensive work to scythe the stakes, stack and haul them to the barns where they'll probably be dried for threshing next month. Everyone seemed to be in a jovial spirit as I pass along the main road, wide enough for cart traffic to go east and west simultaneously with crushed grey rock scattered to prevent wheels from becoming stuck after heavy rain. The sides of the road had patrols of men in Lyrian livery and armed with short swords or crossbows. They brought home the fact that the former 'Pearl of the North' has not recovered from the Nilfgarrdian invasion.

Almost four years ago, the Second War with Nilfgarrd had left this small kingdom in ruins. The burning of farms, villages, crops, and towns had seen Rivia and Lyria become a battlefield. Only the leadership and courage of Rivia and Lyria's Queen Meve had prevented the overall success of Nilfgarrd's invasion. They had restored order since then with the signing of the Peace of Cintra, but everyone knew it would not last. Temaria, Aedern, and the other Northern Kingdoms nearest the Yaruga were still trying to rebuild their industries, re-settle their peasants and grow back lost crops. Were it not for the number of people who'd died; there would have likely been a famine and breakdown of civil society not long after the conflict had ended. Even now, crime was more common, and banditry was prevalent, sometimes on the main roads.

Nearing the walls of the Lyrian summer capital the number of people and pack animals on the roads increased, with merchants leaving and arriving with goods to trade. The increase of people passing by also brought more pairs of eyes towards my face. I kept my eyes facing ahead, stoically not meeting their fearful or wrathful gazes. I knew even with the fame of Geralt, a witcher, being knighted by Queen Meve herself there wouldn't likely change the views of the populous of our guild. And to see another Witcher, one with as ugly a set of scars as mine for all the world to see, didn't make first impressions very kind. I can feel their eyes roaming from Scorpion, to the saddle, onto my swords, face, and medallion. The children seemed to be more curious; they point at me and ask their parent honest questions as I passed by.

'Mummy, why's that man got two swords?'

Or 'Dadda, what happened to that man's mug?'

Or the cute statements of 'his eyes are like our kitty. Can I have eyes like that?'

Most were whispered and not easily heard, but I could hear them, as well as their parent's harsh responses trying to silence them before I 'steal their youngins' as the old saying goes.

The guards at the city gates well allowing the traffic to flow with relative ease, asking only a couple questions to those without a written pass. Its two-story grey stone walls had battlements both internally and externally, with machicolations spread along the outer facing wall for crossbowmen, Lyria and Rivia's most famous soldiers, to fire upon the enemy. The gatehouse itself has a ballista stationed, and on the tops of the four corner towers, making for a square-shaped defensive design with a single entrance. The portcullis was up, for now, should be lowered at night, new thick wooden doors closed to prevent anyone from sneaking inside under cover of darkness.

The now-midday sun was warm, making the leather and chain mail as part of the soldiers' uniform grow increasingly warm. Removing their helmets to help cool down, and wiping wet rags on their foreheads, one of the men spotted my approach and barked an order to the rest. The half dozen of them formed up, four taking positions on either side of the gatehouse, picking up their shields and standing at attention. The other two stayed in place, and I knew they were going to stop me if I didn't halt. Pulling on Scorpion's reins, he quickly stopped a couple of paces from the man who appeared to be in charge. His hazel eyes have a steely look to them, a trained soldier, likely a veteran from the War, who'd taken to permanent service. The short beard and still youthful glow to his skin put him in his early twenties. And his short hair was a professional cut, shorter than my own, and famous for men who wore helmets in their line of work.

'Master Witcher, I presume?' He spoke with a formal tone meeting my gaze, apparently studying my appearance as I had his.

'Yes, I am a Witcher, but I am no one's master.' I answered calmly.

'Then what of your horse? Are you not his master?' The man enquired with a speculative raised eyebrow, gesturing towards Scorpion.

'He's my partner,' I replied with a neutral expression, 'we have an understanding. He doesn't bolt at the first sign of danger, and I make sure he doesn't end up used for glue in retirement.'

My mount tossed his head and snorted at that, the damn intelligent horse.

'He appears to agree with you, or simply was trying to toss away a fly on his nose.' His more humble upbringing was coming through in his accented Common speech. It reminded me of Geralt's way of speaking after he had chosen to be 'from Rivia' when Vesemir told him that the name he'd picked for himself sounded stupid. The Lyrian clear his throat, silencing the chuckles from his fellow guardsmen.

'I am Sir Derrak Forsword, First Lieutenant of the Royal Guards of Lyria and Rivia. We've been receiving reports of a scarred man with two swords and like-cat eyes travelling the countryside, dispatching monsters and collecting the rewards associated. Naturally, we assumed the man to be a Witcher on The Path. The Queen herself wishes to grant you a personal audience, an honour which would be umm, unwise to deny.' His hazel eyes insinuate it would be an insult do say no to the invitation.

I simply nod and respond politely. 'We'd best not keep waiting then. Could you lead the way?' I could have navigated the palace myself, but after the Pogram that nearly took Geralt and Yennifer's lives, I did not want to be known as the Butcher of Lyria after some foolish gang saw me as an easy target.

Sir Forsword nodded and spun around, his cape with the Royal Badge, of a white lion with a sword in its paw fluttering, behind him. He spoke a few commands to one of the guardsmen, and the man quickly ran into the city. After giving me a nod, he walked briskly through the stone gatehouse and into the small city of Lyria, myself and Scorpion trailing behind him.

Traversing the complete cobblestone streets, past multi-storied wooden buildings with shingle roofs, and a surprising lack of latrines, I could see the city itself was in good repair after the War yet its people showed the scars were relatively recent. Several skinny children begged on the sides of the road, along with men with injuries, as well as a few women who appeared to be prostitutes, charging for food, not Gulden. Many people seemed to be moving along the streets, carrying letters, hawking goods or trying to cutpurse anyone who'd let their guard down. At that thought, I also noticed a lack of guards patrolling the streets. Even though crime generally was more frequent in the night, day-time patrols were the norm in all cities, especially in crowded areas. There appeared to be a lack of non-humans roaming the streets as well, only a few half-elves carrying loads of sticks and a couple of dwarves moving carts of iron ingots. My pondering was interrupted by my escort, and he seemed to be scrutinizing me when he thought I wasn't looking and finally questioned what appeared to be pestering his thoughts.

'Master Witcher, forgive me if I'm intrusive, but I noticed your saddle is of Nilfgarrdian design. I should know, saw plenty of them when clearing the field of the Black Clads. The marks on the saddle though, they're not the brands of the common cavalryman. I saw only a handful with such masterful craftsmanship, how did you come into possession of such a beautiful saddle?'

His tone was curious with a hint of reverence, he showed only innocent interest but based on his history with the Black Ones I came to a conclusion he was likely picking for details about my loyalties. A pointless question, in any case.

'My saddle was a gift, a reward for saving the life of a Nilfgarrdian commander when he and his men had attacked a large Royal Wyvern. He was thankful, asked out of his sense of honour to repay me, and I followed the Witchers code in calling upon the Law of Surprise.' I explained simply, giving him enough details that I'd hope he'd find satisfactory. But evidently, he still had questions.

'And was that first Wyvern you'd fought or had you battled others in the past?' He seemed now to be more curious about my profession rather than whether I was an enemy spy.

'At the time it'd been my second Wyvern I'd fought alone.' I answered curtly, not feeling the mood to discuss my past with a person who, by all accounts, was a stranger with a name.

He appeared to want to ask another question but noticed the streets had cleared ahead and there was a contingent of soldiers marching forward, wearing the Queen's royal badge. Seeing so many armed men coming towards me, even as I suspected they were trying to put on an image of strength rather than a threat, made me tense in my saddle and placed a hand on my steel sword. It was a foolish move as even the men pressured to fight, ten on one odds in a crowded city with many more men-at-arms, would not be a favourable situation. Thankfully the men didn't draw swords or aim their crossbows. A man at the front was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing the same badge as his fellow soldiers, yet he also wore a vibrant, violet cape. The hair along his sideburns was grey as well as a few hairs on his head, but the rest was a thick light brown. His face spoke of years of combat and discipline, rigid and stoic with piercing ice-blue eyes and an ashen complexion. Along with his sturdy plate armour, and a Lyrian metal on his breastplate, I concluded him to be a high ranking general of minor nobility, likely the son of a knight, yet a man who'd come to earn respect and honours without inheriting the egotism that tends to come with that power.

'Master Witcher.' He greeted with a nod and looked pointedly at my hand still close-fisted around my sword hilt. 'You needn't worry about any conflict here good sir. My men are not to commit any harm so long as you respect our laws and follow my instructions.'

The men behind him did not move to draw or raise their weapons. His men had the discipline and respect, as I'd thought.

'My name is Reynard Odo. General of the Rivian and Lyrian Armed Forces. Advisor to Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia, The White Queen. Also known as The Violet Knight.' He announced in full formal fashion, as though speaking to a crowd at a tournament. After a moment of silence, I concluded he wished for me to introduce myself. Letting go of Scorpion's reins and sliding out of his saddle, I made a short bow out of respect.

'I am Eskel, Witcher of the School of the Wolf.' I answered with less of a declaration in my voice and more of an assertion of the fact.

Odo's right eyebrow raised in curiosity. 'Eskel, simply Eskel? No place of birth or residence? No titles earned or granted?'

I simply shrugged in response. 'Witchers don't need such titles. My profession is what is most important to me, some Witchers who've gained a reputation with monikers and the like. But I don't want nor need them. Witchers remain neutral on political matters, we follow the Code, and we hunt monsters. Plain and simple.' I explained to him, my eyes meeting his.

Odo seems to think about what I'd said to him for a few seconds before nodding. 'Thank you, Eskel, for that explanation. While you may not think you have a reputation behind your name, with so few of your kind left, there are a few traits that have become commonly understood features of your character.'

I couldn't help giving the General a rueful smile. 'I wonder what they could be. Perhaps the Scarred Wolf? The mournful Witcher? Perhaps the Icy Sword of the North? Or maybe simply the Stoic Witcher who feels nothing for the pain of others? He who takes pleasure in degenerate torture and mutilation? It is not every day a man told what he's become infamous for.'

Odo shook his head and stated. 'No, none of that. You're known for being efficient and carrying out your contracts with care. Calm and reasonable, you've become known for being quiet and thoughtful, even modest about your talents.'

I felt somewhat taken aback by his statement, but kept my face schooled as always. 'Well, you keep yourself well informed.'

'As well as the Queen. She is patiently waiting for your arrival. Perhaps another time, you can also explain what happened at the Battle of Sodden Hill? Only rumours of your contributions are spoken, but from what I've gathered...' He stopped at my upraised palm, pausing this topic of conversation.

'I'll ask you only once General Odo, if you are as honourable as you present yourself, you'll not speak of this within earshot of loose lips. I don't know your men or even you, so I certainly do not wish to explain any of my private or professional actions to anyone I do not trust.' I said to him firmly, my body tense at the mention of the Second Battle of Sodden and the fury of emotions associated.

He appeared to understand, likely having his troubling memories of the battles he'd fought, and nodded in agreement. 'Another time then.'

Turning to his men, he gave the order to march back towards Lyria castle, which thankfully was only a couple hundred yards away. Leading Scorpion by his reins, I kept at pace, now more curious at what Meve's intentions were for me.

I continued to ponder, trying to prepare myself for the possibilities. 'Geralt did mention the respect had for her and was pleased with her success in re-taking her kingdom. But he did also explain having to escape her retinue in the night because she would not allow him to leave. She understands the strengths and usefulness of Witchers, but if she thinks she can hire me like a common thug, she is gravely mistaken.' Thinking helps, but Scorpion's opinion was always welcome. If I did try talking to him though it wouldn't make the best impression to the soldiers around me and break the 'Witcher' appearance, I try to maintain in public.

Nearby the keep I noticed an increasing number of non-humans, dwarves, elves and gnomes, as well as a few half breeds and humans, who seemed to be living in some of the more sturdy stone houses closest to the stronghold itself. The streets had become more congested as open-air workshops lined both sides, the sounds of shouting, laughter, scraping, hammering and scratching filling the air as thick as smoke, which was also floating around from a few forges. The dwarves were crafting armour and weapons with large hammers ringing like a bell on every swing towards the white metal on the anvil. What was most intriguing was how they were all swinging as one, humming a deep baritone tune in beat with each other to stay synchronized. Elves were using small knives to whittle down fresh oak, ash and birch branches into longbows, with cedar and hickory branches turning into arrows. Small iron arrowheads, made for armour penetration, were being attached to the tips, with goose feathers used for the fletchings. There were fewer gnomes than the other two Elder Races, but they seemed to be centred around a round table going over design schematics, showing experimental crossbows. A few were showing each other the prototypes they'd come up with. The half-elves and half-dwarves were usually aiding their Elder kin, with the humans spread among each group, even a man with a professor's attire was discussing with the gnomes and smoking a pipe.

General Odo noted my observations and explained them. 'This is the craftsmen section of Lyria. Before the War, there had been a major human guild that controlled this section of the city. They'd tried to use their influence to make the city surrender to the Nilfgarrdian empire, the same as what had happened in Rivia. But many of the non-humans, and a few human citizens, staged a coup to depose the mayor before he could surrender the city. As news of the Queen's guerilla warfare became known, citizens left the city either in favour of fighting in the War or simply to get away from the non-humans controlling the city's stronghold. After the War was over Queen Meve banished the human guilds from Lyria and Rivia who tried to give up the capitals without a fight, instead, she formed new guilds in partnership with the Dwarves of Mahakam and the Elves of Dol Balthanna. Gnomes have even set up shop here as engineers and traders. For now, we've had to segregate the groups from the human majority somewhat until they can become better acquainted with their neighbours. Its why we've housed many in the keep and nearby, to prevent the 'Pogram of Rivia' happening again.'

He looked pointedly at me at that statement. I nodded in agreement, having heard of what had transpired and how for two years thought that my brother Geralt had died. Another Witcher killed at the hands of the humans it was his duty to protect, who had instead become the monster, the sort we destroy. Nothing is ever black and white, humans good, monsters evil. Some humans are the worst of monsters, and some monsters have more humanity than the majority of humans.

As we arrive at the gatehouse, we're all were greeted with salutes from the guarding men-at-arms. Odo told his contingent to report to their posts and gestured to me to follow him. The castle of Lyria was quite grand, thick grey stone walls with battlements atop, arrow slits in the gatehouse and towers, and a portcullis at each end of the gatehouse. Seeing its imposing defences made me compare how much Kaer Morhen has fallen into disrepair since the attack on Witchers half a century ago. 'We wouldn't be able to fend off a group PFI's at this point.' I thought upon the reflection.

Past the imposing defences, the inner bailey was a modest size, with several brick buildings that likely stored foodstuff and weaponry. A well in courtyard topped off the defences in providing drinking water even during a siege. This city and castle was a fort to be reckoned with, its no small wonder that Niflgarrd wasn't able to take the city and didn't even attempt a lengthy siege with more plunder to the north. And the actual keep was a durable build, with the crest of House Raven, Signs of Lyria and Rivia, and Queen Meve's badge fluttering in the light breeze atop flag poles and down drooping banners in yellows, reds, whites, and blacks. Windows dotted the multi-storied building, refracting the light from the noonday sun, and making the grey rock seem permeated with gems.

In front, a large hardwood door stood a tall, regal woman, with honey blond hair in a thick braid and wearing malachite coloured clothing. She wore a simple golden circlet upon her head and carried a hand and a half steel sword on her side. The woman had crossed her arms, and her face showed impatience at our timing. Her green eyes are flashing, with a long scar ranging from the top of her lips to her right ear. She could only be the Queen Meve herself and spoke with a tone of authority.

'Reynard, I had expected you to find out who this visiting Witcher was. It appears you've found him, but it is not Geralt as I'd been hoping.' Reynard appeared to be ready to respond, but Meve cut him off. 'Its okay Reynard, you can't always get what you want in life. Speak Witcher, who are you, and why have you come to Lyria?'

I had delt with monarchs many times before, but it was the Queens, especially ones who played an active role in governance, that had left lasting impressions on me. Much like Calanthe of Cintra and her mother Adalia before her, Meve was another woman whom I could respect in the same regard immediately upon first introductions. Standing a little straighter, I got straight to the point, seeing she would not take kindly to flowery words and polite etiquette.

'My name is Eskel, a Witcher from the School of the Wolf. Geralt is my brother, and I have come in regards to a contact I heard was available. One to do with a noonwraith?' I asked, imagining a straightforward job and payment.

Meve was pensive for a moment before chuckling without mirth. 'If only it were a noonwraith, no, there is more to it than that. Come with me, Eskel, and I would wish to have words for you in a more private setting.' She turned towards the keep and, after passing Scoption's reins to a stableboy, I followed.


	3. 1202: Bodrog

1202 Bodrog

Throughout our travels, Geralt and I have learnt the meaning of patience when on The Path. Each hunt is a dangerous task that has to be taken with the utmost caution and careful preparation. Which is why, instead of meditating like a monk-like Geralt, I'm reviewing my notes about Giant Centipeids nearby the campfire. Meditation has never been my strong suit though, no matter how many times I've tried to 'let my thoughts and spirit move beyond the physical limits of my body' as our elven teacher told us. Perhaps Geralt's other mutations have simply helped to give him that mental ability to calm his mind.

'Or maybe, I'm nervous about facing magic fucking insect big enough to eat us both.' I scold myself. Feeling goosebumps race across my arms at the thought of my worst fear come to life. Monsterous multilegged insects.

Now, I've never been fond of anything with more than six legs, there are good uses for spiders, scorpions, bees, even Beatles. But when you get into the dozens of arms, it becomes a lot less useful and more...creepy. So to be facing a Giant Centipede, I quickly decided that having Geralt along for half of the reward is a small sacrifice for a greater chance of survival as well as to back me up if I end up shitting myself before the fight begins.

Old Man Barmin old us, before we left Kaer Morhen, that, 'more Witchers die out in the swamps, jumped by drowners or eaten by gouls. If one out of ten Witchers survives all three Trails, then around half of 'em die within their first five ploughin' years.' Since Geralt and I were the only two out of the twenty in our class who have survived for this long, we've formed a close bond from years spent training, living and travelling together.

Around the campfire, stars high above over the clear night sky, I survey the area again with the cat-like night vision all Witchers have. Through the darkness, I see a familiar outline of rocks a few hundred paces away, as well as a cave and scattering of bones, animal and human. All around the outcropping are enough holes for a family of moles. But these mole holes are big enough for a well to be built atop. And weren't made by moles.

I came across the contract on a notice board within Bodrog, one of the three fortresses built on the northern bank of the Yuruga delta, between Verden and Cintra. While they are located mainly for defence and as a barrier to southern invasion, they do house a sizeable civilian population because of the strategic trade route that runs past. This gives the small kingdom a lucrative source of revenue by way of tolls and tariffs. Its an essential location for the nobles, so any monsters or nests of monsters that may slow down or halt trade will reduce their coffers quickly. The reward said they'd pay 200 ducats for every Centipeid killed, and an extra 600 for their next to be destroyed if one was found.

I tacked down the nest quickly after talking to some locals about where the trade caravans had been attacked. Built within a rocky outcropping its not a simple matter of throwing in a grapeshot or dragon's dream, then waiting for all the eggs to go bomb. They appeared to have burrowed deep underground. So, to be sure every Egg is destroyed, we'll have to journey underground.

Now I know what my strengths and weaknesses are, as well as the ones of the monster I was facing, and one thing is for sure, you don't want to meet a monster in their element or the prefered environment if you can help it. So fighting a Centipede underground, where I would have less manoeuvrability, and they'd have every angle attack from, was not going to be a situation I was going to pick to fight them. Since time was of the essence as other Witchers would come flocking for such a large reward, I choose to team up with Geralt on this hunt. He and I were already travelling as companions, plus its safer to be on the roads together. I can get to be somewhat lonely when you've grown up with other witchers, then have to face the rest of the world without a brother by your side.

'Geralt, have you heard what the common folk say about these monsters?' I ask, breaking the still silence in the air, even crickets weren't chirping.

Geralt sighs, trying to remain in a meditative state, by answers. 'No, Eskel, I don't. Something about how mages created them from child sacrifice?'

I grin at that thought, it reminds me of several 'creation stories' I've heard on my travels, from Drowners being reanimated corpses of those who committed suicide. To water hags being she-elves driven mad by grief for her children being killed.

'Not quite. A merchant was spouting to me today about how the dyads of Brokilon created them out of vengeance on us humans for cutting down the surrounding forests.' I explained.

Geralt grinned a little at that explanation, his eyes remaining closed. 'Did he also have an explanation for why the Dryads hate the beasts too? If you think Dryads are pissed when you enter their territory, wait until you see their wrath when a monster begins killing trees and destroying the nature they try to preserve.'

'I did ask him that. He seemed quite shocked, then upset that his grand theory seemed to have a couple of holes. And finally shrugged, mumbling something about how mages can lose control over their creations as well.' I chuckled at that ending. 'Although he's not entirely wrong in that regard. How many mages have you heard of that are supposedly 'all-powerful' and yet are killed by their very creations. Take the Viy of Maribor for example, Alzur was eventually killed by that beast after experimenting around with Giant Centipedes. It destroyed the elvish city that Maribor was built atop.'

'Yes yes, I've heard that story too Eskel. Didn't we study together? All those late nights reading scrolls under candle-light? We got a hiding for 'wasting resources' because you couldn't sleep.' Geralt had opened his eyes by this point and was stretching his arms over his head. After taking a seat across the fire from me and chucking in another limb of deadwood, he looked over at the rocky outcropping I'd been observing.

'Do you think they'll come looking for us? Or are we going to have to go on the attack instead?' He questioned, not taking his eyes off the Centipeid's nest.

I shrugged, looking over a copy I'd made of the Witcher Beastiary back at Kaer Morhen. 'It says here that they will attack in the day or night, but prefer to use darkness to their advantage when on the hunt. Generally, daytime attacks are because of intruders wandering into their territory.' I quote from the text.

Geralt grunts in affirmation. 'The only ones I've faced were in the day when I was hunting some game. Turns out they'll eat a deer as easily a human. Not too picky when it comes to food apparently.'

'Have they got any weak points? Anything that we should take advantage of when in combat?' I enquire, its rare to have Geralt give me any significant details of his fights against monsters.

He shrugs and turns toward me. 'The head and tail end. Both are dangerous because of the poison and claws or teeth. Best keep out of the way of them and try to cut it down the middle. Once in two parts, it slowly dies, but will be dangerous for a little while after that mortal wound.'

I nod and write down the details with a quill and inkpot from my saddlebags. Geralt notices and smiles at the quirk of a Witcher author. Although most older Witchers do catalogue their experiences when they're over a century, I'm very young in that regard to be writing down such details at only a quarter of the age. But Geralt learnt years ago to accept my quirks, as much as I simply I understand his.

'Have you got the potions and bombs ready?' He asks after I finish writing and blowing on the ink to help it dry. I point to the five small vials of blue, green and white liquids, as well as a handful of grapeshot bombs I'd had crafted in Bodrog today. With some saltpeter and calcium equum ground into a fine flammable powder, a bit of pure silver dust for monsters, as well as iron shards just as an extra measure, the small handheld bomb can be a devastating weapon.

'They should be all in good order, I checked the fuses and mixed the powders myself. And this blacksmith had some experience with making them for other Witchers in the past.' I added, remembering how the last bomb castings were faulty.

Geralt checks the bombs over with a keen eye for any cracks or impurities in the material. Grunting in satisfaction, he looks over each potion. 'The usual then? Thunderbolt for you, Cat for myself, and Swallow for both of us?'

I nod at his assumption. I'd always been more for direct combat with a robust and two-handed slash, making the Thunderbolt potion a preference. While Geralt has ever had better reflexes and finesse, preferring the extra speed that comes with the Cat potion. But we always carry a Swallow for after the fight when we're bleeding out and need a faster recovery than healing naturally. Not having a remedy for recovery or healing is how come a single Drowner or Goul can end a Witcher whos prone and helpless after a battle.

I point to the golden potion he forgot to list. 'The last one is the Golden Oriole. If these Centipeids as dangerous as I think one of us will at least need a dose after getting poisoned. I had only one vial of light essence leftover from the Noonwraith contract back in Dorian, so if one of us is a bit, we fall back and reassess the situation.' I order him pointedly.

Geralt laughs at my strong suggestion. I know as well as he that he doesn't mind going into fights with no plan other than to 'kill the damn monster'. But I know full well he and I are not immortal and can be killed nearly as easily as a normal human. Yet, even so, he'll take the stupid risks, that look brave from an outside point of view, and I'll be the one to make sure he doesn't expire on my watch.

I shake my head as his bemusement and uncork my bottle of Thunderbolt. Geralt readies his own Cat, and we clink them together next to the fire. 'For Monsters and Coin.' We say in cheers and gulp down the potions. This potion, in particular, is simple to boil and make. A bottle of Drawven Spirits, some shredded Cortinarius mushrooms and an Endrega embryo. This far south of Kaer Morhen, Endregas are more common as they prefer the warmer climates south of Mahakam, especially past the Yuruga river. After bringing the ingredients to a boil there are a few magical words to help cause the mixture to combine any remaining bits of mushroom, then it's done. Now the recipe has improved since it was first created centuries ago because there are side effects as with any Witcher potion. Namely, dodging and injuries are more prevalent in combat as evasive reactions are lowered while the mind goes into a tunnel vision state called Battle Trance. Muscle power is augmented, giving strikes with a sword or fist more power, efficiently causing more damage to an opponent. Yet at the same time becoming an easier target, so heavy or medium armour is recommended for better protection. After the potion wears off, damaged muscle fibres become more noticeable, and it requires a tremendous amount of time to recover without the use of Swallow. These potions may be useful, but they do have their drawbacks and costs.

After both of us drink the potions, it takes a few seconds for the effects to begin. My heart rate increases, forearms and biceps slowly grow more abundant, and my vision becomes hyper-focused on what is in front of me. Looking to Geralt, I can see he's almost vibrating with the new energy coursing through his whole body. The veins surrounding his eyes now appear and are pulsing black colour. My eyes have likely done the same based on previous experiences. The effect of potions really does bring home the fact you're not totally human. For if an ordinary person drank one of these potions, their body wouldn't be able to handle the toxicity no matter the benefits. If the person is lucky, they die quickly, if they're not then its a slow and agonising process as the substance consumes the body from the inside.

It's these potions that bring our senses to a higher level too, as the world appears more clearly to my eyes. I can also smell and hear, faint scents and sounds that were muted only moments before. The feeling of energy coursing through your blood is intoxicating, making my body automatically reach for the silver sword strapped onto my back. The weapon leaves its sheath in a quiet woosh, and its blade reflects the moonlight in a beautiful way. The silver plating prevents most monsters from regenerating, unlike how a steel sword will cut better yet doesn't stop them from healing quickly. It requires more maintenance than a steel sword as the softer metals break or bends with less force. After having both our swords replated and sharpened by a local blacksmith, they look ready to slice off some monster heads.

I give Geralt a nod and both of us from into guard positions, his with his right hand forwards to draw a sign while his left hand has his silver sword ready. I choose the more traditional pose with both hands on my sword hilt with the blade in a 'blocking' position, one which I should be easily able to disengage from and attack with sharp swipes.

I stand at the ready, beads of sweat forming on my brow as the potion increases my body's temperature. I can see Geralt had closed his eyes, breathing deeply and focusing his senses. I, on the other hand, feel for the slight vibration that can come from my medallion only a split second before the attack hits.

After a few moments, I think I can feel the medallion twitching, then a light vibration runs through the chain around my neck.

'Hmmm, medallions humming.' Geralt says, opening his eyes. 'Two, maybe three of them. They're coming towards us slowly.' He crouches down and places his hand on the ground. After a moment, his eyes get wide, and he leaps backwards as a massive pair of pincer-like jaws burst out of the earth. Geralt actives his Quen sign not a moment too late as the Centipeid charges forth, into the Witcher's shield and creating a loud explosion. Geralt himself rolls backwards, on purpose or from the blast is hard to say, and the Cetipeid is stunned from its impact. I take advantage of its immobility to slash its head, cutting deeply into the flesh but severing anything essential but a couple of spindly legs. It roars as the pain of the attack bringing its consciousness back into reality. Then with a swipe of its jaws, it tries to send me flying, only to my silver sword cut the jaws off in the process. Thick green blood squirts from the stumps and the Centerpeid screams again. As it straightens its body and tries to escape back down the hole it came from, I leap forward, and with an overhead arching swing, bring down my blade onto its skull with all the force I can muster for the effort. My blade sinks into its flesh, head caves in, green viscous fluid sprays into my face, and the monster ceases movement.

Its as I'm standing there, holding my blade in the Centerpeid's brain matter, I realise I've covered in its blood as well as had just killed it. Looking down at my work, I'm not sure whether to cheer or throw up. I settle for neither for now, since there are at least one more of its buddies out there and he or she won't be happy about killing its sibling.

'Are you okay, Geralt?' I ask, wiping the blood from my face and turning towards my brother. He appears okay and merely is dusting off a few blades of grass from his armour. When he looks up at my gore-covered state, he cracks a smile.

'Not bad Eskel, are you getting one of those Zerakanian face masks done? Its the rage for the Noble ladies to keep their skin soft as a...' He doesn't finish his sarcastic remark as I toss a handful of green blood towards his own face. He dodged the projectile easily, and his grin grows wider.

Behind me, I can hear a loud rumbling. No, two considerable rumblings, quickly making their way towards Geralt and me.

'Get ready!' I shout and reach for a grapeshot bomb behind my back, striking the flint on top with ease, causing the fuse on top to ignite. Geralt rushes past, taking the bomb as I hold it out for him, and he charges headfirst towards the maw of another Giant Centipeid leaping from the ground. With a flick of his wrist, the bomb goes sailing into its mouth and down its throat. Both of us run in opposite directions as the bomb goes off internally within the Centipeid's stomach, causing the creature to drop to the ground with a crater the size of a fist leaking out its previous, partially digested meals.

There is a stillness as we wait for the last Centipeid to come for us. But instead of attacking, its' tunnelling leads away from us, heading northwards to Brokilon and away from its nest. Apparently, it saw us as too big a threat, choosing to abandon its home rather than die at our hands. 'A smarter monster than I would have thought.' I pondered internally. 'Is this one perhaps more intelligent than the rest, or are they evolving?' Shaking my head at the ridiculous, I see Geralt walking towards the nest.

'Not bad!' I shout to him. 'Though a little more flare wouldn't go amiss. Or are you just getting slow? You could have given it a parting slash across the eyes to prevent it from giving chase!' I mock good-naturedly.

Geralt only replies with a rude hand gesture over his shoulder pacing towards the entrance of the tunnel leading into the rocky outcropping. I choose to keep myself busy with a bit of trophy and alchemy harvesting. As I was already stinking with the beast's blood, I figured I'd best make the most of the unpleasant situation.

'Just another day as a Witcher.' I think to myself, looking over the corpse in front of me. After a short pause, staring into the beady eyes of this multilegged insect, I lean on my knees a wretch up my dinner. Having emptied my stomach, I wipe my mouth with the back of my glove, sheath my sword and take out a small carving knife from my belt.


	4. 1202 Bogrog

The nest took a few minutes to reach as it was dug deep into the cold, dense stone, as I'd suspected. There were piles of bones as well as caches of equipment leftover from their former meals. Much of the clothes were no more than torn rags, as well as the weapons being in pieces or bent utterly out of shape. What could be made out from what was still legible, was that these Giant Centipeids had been harassing trade caravans ranging from as far south as Nazair, and as far north as Blavakin. There were even the robes and sand-encrusted boots of traders from East of the Korath Desert.

When we did make it to the end of the long tunnel, 40 green eggs, each the size of an adult wolf, were clustered into a pile. They were oval-shaped and the mostly-formed-larvae within were suspended in a kind of embryonic fluid. Thankfully each seemed to be undisturbed and hadn't hatched. While they weren't as large and predatory as the adults, each was more potent in their venom at a younger age and could take on an unarmed man as well as any wild animal. Imagining their clicking jaws and skittering legs gives me goosebumps. I shake my head of the creepy-crawly thoughts and search for something else to focus on.

'What do you make of this Geralt?' I asked, looking around the smooth tunnel. I'd at first suspected the Centipeids had made use of a natural cave then dug their way into the earth, but their burrows were jagged and rough, using powerful jaws and claws to dig and fill in their path behind themselves. These appeared to instead be carved carefully from the rock, the smooth surfaces showed fire craftsmanship, small chisel lines still present along the roof of the long cave.

Geralt grunted, intensely scrutinising the tunnel as much as I. 'Gnomes? Dwarves? Perhaps Elves? Not humans or monsters. Too much detail, not enough uniformity.' He started pointing to how the lines appeared to form symbols on the cave ceiling.

'Is that Elder Speech?' I asked in wonder. It was unusual to find the archaic script anywhere outside of dusty libraries and elven ruins. The language is supposed to still be spoken by nymphs, elves and other Elder Races. Geralt and I were taught some while back in Kaer Morhen, but he never quite took to learning new languages.

Geralt shrugged. 'Whatever it was, the passage of time has weathered it beyond normal human comprehension.' He met my puzzled expression with a smirk. 'Luckily for us, we're not normal humans.' He chuckled at my embarrassed expression. After slapping my forehead, I took out a sheet of parchment and looking intently at the symbols, began scrawling what I could see while sitting on a pile of torn clothing.

'Well, this has certainly turned out to be an interesting hunt. An ancient cave, the monsters killed or fled, and a contract completed without injuries.' I think to myself optimistically. Then realise I'm tempting fate with such thoughts and cringe.

The following afternoon was sunny and calm, a light breeze coming from the north and making the trip back to Bodrog with our trophies more pleasant. The local commander of the garrison, a rail-thin man with elderly eyes and white beard, was polite enough about the contract. Unlike a few village aldermen I've dealt with in the past, he actually paid the reward in full for the contract, including the bounty on the destroyed nest after we'd revealed a couple of the eggs we had not smashed. He may have been polite, but I knew he wouldn't take us on our word unless there was proof that the monsters were dead. A couple of Giant Centipede heads were all that were needed thankfully, and we had our 1,000 Ducats. He was sure to send a patrol of men to lay out the proof at the town square with an announcement that the route north was now cleared of danger.

Geralt and I were pleased with our payment, splitting it evenly, and giving us enough money to survive comfortably for a couple months if we stayed in Verden. The currency was used within Skellige, Cintra, Kaedwen, and Aedirn too, making it the coin of choice when travelling back to Kaer Morhen before Winter settles in. But this much was easily enough to splurge and relax after a night on the hunt. Geralt decided to visit the local bathhouse and, having no better plans, I joined him as neither one of us had had a proper wash since leaving Brugge.

The bathhouse was not far from the fort's gatehouse, catering more towards travelling merchants and visiting nobility, it made sense to be at a convenient location for their clientele. The building was a fine timber structure of three stories in height, with thick oaken beams to make the structure firm enough to support the heavy tubs of steaming water. The outside was decorated with colourful paintings of men toasting wine and women washing their bodies. A tasteful establishment, with a very subdued name of 'Soap and Bubbles.'

The tubs themselves were either a sizeable wooden build, usually made from half of a large ale barrel or a specially crafted copper tub. Being thrifty, I choose the wooden one, and Geralt choose the copper. We shared a small room, smelling of dried herbs, lavender and rosemary from the coastline; additionally, my tub still retained the sweet odour of honey ale. Relaxing in the steaming water, I can feel the aches in my muscles ebb away, helping to reduce the pain of the torn muscles in my arms and shoulder blades. The wooden flooring was covered in old cloth sheets and rags to prevent water from soaking through to the level below, making for a colourful collage of fabrics that enhanced the vibrant atmosphere of the bathhouse. I close my eyes and lean my head back onto the towel I used for a pillow.

'You know what Geralt, you were right. Sometimes it pays to enjoy luxury once in a while.' I said aloud for him to hear me over the splashes coming from his tub.

Geralt, opting for the more expensive package deal, was laying back in his copper tub while a maid washed his arms with a brush and sponge, using lilac soap to better remove stains and dirt from his skin. She was a pretty young thing, nearing twenty, short, with large perky breasts, long dark hair, and bright green eyes. Precisely Geralt's type.

Even though she was wearing a modest white dress and headscarf, Eskel could read her body language. Her large pupils, red lips, flushed cheeks, and her stares at Geralt's muscular frame made it clear she was attracted to the white-haired Witcher.

Geralt, for his part, never turned down a willing partner. While the Witcher mutations may have dampened our ability to express emotion, it didn't make us any less a man.

Geralt groaned at my statement to him and a relaxed smile spread across his face. 'I do so love the comforts of life. You should try it more often Eskel, I'm sure you'd have a taste for the pleasures on offer.' Geralt opened his eyes and stared at the maid for a moment, before winking at her and closing his eyes as her washing moved to his distinctive long white hair. Her face appeared more flushed than before and seemed to be biting her lower lip.

I chuckled at Geralt's implication. 'Yes, but I'm happier with a cold bed and a pouch of coin, than a warm bed without a Ducat to my name.' I jeered back at him. He'd never understood the idea of frugal spending and living off the land.

'Well, at least I know what it's like to have a warm bed. When was the last time you've shared yours with a lady?' He threw back at me.

'I'm not sure, likely the last time you didn't spend your earnings as though they were burning a hole into your pocket. And how's your gambling debt to the Vivaldi's going? You know Igor will be chomping at the bit to get his share of that coin.' I retort with a smirk as I open my eyes.

Geralt screws up his face in deliberation before sighing in defeat and dissolving into a burst of happy laughter. I join with him, revelling the rare occasion of beating him at our little game of 'Roast the Witcher'. It is also an excellent way to unwind after facing down another monster, somehow surviving and earning a reward. In the stories, you're hailed as a hero for accomplishing such extraordinary feats, but in reality, you're an outcast until needed, then banished from sight when you're no longer tolerated.

Shaking my head at that sombre thought, I dunk my head into the cooling brackish water and wash any leftover Centipeid bits from my midnight black hair. Feeling as though most of the green goop has been removed, I slowly stand up, wrap the towel around my toned waist and step out of the former-barrel with two wet flops. My clothes and armour are in a pile next to a three-legged wooden stool, all having been laundered and cleaned as they can be. My sheathed swords remain untouched, for I don't trust anyone but those with experienced hands to fondle my private pieces. The armour is nicked and scratched in places, its black leather and steel chain mail needs replacing, while my tan leather trousers are new and still in elegant shape. My clothing is a casual white cotton shirt, and un-dyed hemp pants, practical and straightforward are the prefered attributes in what I wear.

Slipping my clothing on and over my athletic body, my ever-present witcher medallion jingling on its silver chain, I notice a few scars over my torso and remembering the training we went through using steel swords for the first time. We'd learnt quickly how to block and dodge, for while the cuts and wounds would heal soon, the practice blades were coated with poison. The pain the poison caused could make an ordinary person vomit or pass out. With our increased pain tolerance we gained from mutations, we'd feel as though we were burned by a hot poker, instead of receiving a flesh wound from a blunted sword. My arms show the same marks too, most were faint when they weren't deep, others were pink in colour from deeper wounds I'd got after a group of bandits saw me as an easy target. They were mistaken but went down fighting.

'Eskel?' Geralt asked after I'd strapped a brown leather belt around my waist, and adjusted the leathers holding my swords in place. 'I think there were some papers amongst the clothing I looted from the corpses in the Centipeid Nest. Take a look at them, would you? There might be some useful information written.'

I met Geralt's enquiring gaze with a perplexed look and shook my head. 'Why do you always check rotting corpses everywhere we go. Haven't you heard of respecting the dead?' I explain to him, then say under my breath. 'Its kind of unnerving how often you indulge in that habit.' I know he still hears me. Geralt simply shrugs and grunts as the maid now works on his right leg, moving ever so slowly towards his groin.

I close my eyes and sigh. 'Give me the papers, and I'll have a read at the tavern while you...indulge.' I said in a defeated tone, gesturing to him, the tub and the very-interested young lady bathing his nude body.

Geralt smirks at me before pointing towards his pile of freshly laundered clothing, where a few pages of lettering was scrawled in black ink. I quickly walk over and tuck them into a pocket on the inside of my shirt, then with a flamboyant bow and smirk, leave the room to allow Geralt a delightful time.

Strolling down the stairs, my knee-high boots thumping on the worn brown wood, I do ponder on Geralt's words. He is right in that I'm generally more reserved than him, both when it comes to women and spending money. The latter isn't a big deal for me since I prefer to be in the wilderness and away from crowds of people in general. The former though is something I brush off but can't help feeling an ache in my chest for something... more.

But I know a Witcher shouldn't indulge himself into such pursuits. We were supposed to be a guild of warrior monks, a way to combat monsters as humans began to settle these lands following the Conjunction of Spheres. It's our duty, to protect and hunt down monsters, or least those who cannot live with humans peacefully. And as a blacksmith or carpenter is paid for their craft, we're paid for ours, for we are professionals.

There are even forts constructed where Witchers base themselves when they cannot find somewhere peaceful for the winter. And while Witchers have formed a kind of brotherhood with members of their school, as well with other Witchers too, Bear and Cat Witchers exempted, it does still feel like a lonesome experience. Fewer Witchers these days can find a place to base their services from, as we're becoming increasingly less welcome in cities and towns. There are generally fewer Witchers walking the Path, as high mortality rates come with the job, and not as many people willingly give up their children to be turned into mutated monster hunters.

Geralt and I can see more lingering stares of malice as we walk the streets, but out of fear of our retaliation, we're not directly confronted. This makes friendships and partnerships outside of the guild difficult. Whores are still an option since our coin is genuine, but unlike Geralt, I don't have that same craving for the flesh. Women intrigue me, and at times wish for a more substantial experience with them, but to pay for the practice doesn't seem right for me.

Walking outside the sun has already set over the western horizon. Burning torches dipped in animal fat or pitch keep the front doors of buildings alight on the otherwise dark night. Few people are wandering the streets at this time, most will either be settling in for the night or making merry in the taverns. A few guards in pairs patrol with their own torches, dressed in reasonably primitive leather armour and carrying blunted short iron swords with batons, they simply help to keep drunken revellers to a minimum rather than guard the streets against crime. I catch a few movements out of the corner of my eye, along the muddy alleyways and behind battlements, likely being cats or other nocturnal predators. For these reasons, I'm reminded of the benefits of camping within forests, namely fewer predators or wayfarers at night. And those you do come across are easily distinguished as an enemy. Nobody in their right mind would creep upon another man alone at night in the woods, but many'd do so within city walls.

Trudging through the streets, my boots thumping on the hard-packed earth, I see a small one-story tavern, away from the noise and crowded establishments closer to the walls and marketplace centre. It is squat but has a cosy appearance, with rough-hewn weatherboarding and complete with a wooden sign hanging from a horizontal pole above the cherry-wood door.

'Speaking Friends Tavern' was written in bright yellow ink. But below those words was a sentence in Elder Speech caved into the painted board.

'Cáelm bleidd caed'

I smiled at the translation in my head and decided that this establishment may be helpful for more than just a drink. Pushing open the stout door, I see there are only a few patrons within, playing a game of Poker Dice at one table in the front, with two other tables empty, and a couple more sitting by themselves in a corner booth. The other stalls are surprisingly devoid of customers. The tavern could house nearly fifty people, while still allowing standing room, yet there's only a tenth of that number.

'It must be a slow day.' I think to myself, observing the barkeep behind a long table with wooden casks and barrels on tap against the wall. Shelves higher up held glass bottles, likely containing higher quality or stronger alcohols. There are a few lit candles scattered around the tavern to give some lighting, and the burning wax produces a faint scent of lemongrass.

The floors are of dark wood, with rushes spread around to better prevent staining and clean up the spills. The tall four-legged wood stools in front of the barkeep are empty, so I take one, positioning my back to an open booth and away from strangers. It's after choosing my seat and getting comfortable on the surprisingly soft cushion that I take a closer look at the barkeep. It appears she is a she-elf, based on her petite frame, long dark hair, almond eyes, graceful features, and pointed ears. She is wearing a simple white apron, stained brown and red in spots, and manages her hair in a tidy bun using a piece of leather at the back of her head.

She does look up at me after a few moments, likely feeling my curious stare. She pauses cleaning an earthware mug with a well-used washcloth and gives me a surprisingly pleasant smile.

'How may I help you, sir?' She asks in a silvery, accented voice 'We have local pepper vodka if you need something to put a bit of hair on your chest. Perhaps a mug of Mahakaman mead, that's pretty popular around Bodrog locals. Or Cintrian Faro? That stuff is sweeter than I'd prefer, but the seamen love the stuff when they're at sea. Although... you don't look like a sailor or merchant, and I know you're not a local.'

I nod and give her a small smile. 'I'll take a pint on Mahakaman, if you wouldn't mind. And I admit I'm not local or a tradesman. But I'd imagine that you can make a reasonable guess based on the eyes and that I carry two swords.' I replied, gesturing to the two sheathed swords strapped diagonally across my back.

She shrugged in response, setting down the mug and pulling out a more giant tankard from under the table. Then opens the tap on a barrel behind her, carefully tilting the cup to prevent the frothing that can come from inexperience. The practised ease she shows as she goes through the motions while staring towards the closed entrance door shows she has an experienced hand at barkeeping.

'She also seems to have something on her mind.' I think to myself, feeling a little on edge. 'I'd best keep my wits about me, Elves can be as treacherous as any other race.'

Geralt and I hadn't had much in the way of interactions with the Elder races so far. A few had visited Kaer Morhen during our younger years, but mainly male dwarves to aid in construction projects for the newly built Keep. The handful of elves that saw were generally seeking aid and treatment for monster attacks or spreading illnesses. Being Witchers, we are all immune to such diseases and could quarantine the afflicted, plus the small team of mages in tenure didn't mind helping to find a cure. The Elves paid as reliably as humans, that is to say, we didn't always get paid in full upon completion of a contract, but they did eventually compensate us for both our peoples had long memories and can hold even longer grudges.

My introspective train of thought was broken as a full pint of rich, dark, Mahakaman honey mead was placed in front of me. Seeing the mug's ever-shifting contents made me take notice of the table, it is made of a large stab of high grain walnut, its full brown colour masking years of ale spills. But what was more unusual was a small folded page of parchment next to the mug. I looked up to the she-elf, and her back was towards me as she seemed to be busying herself with a customer who'd walked in while I wasn't looking.

The customer was a tall man, thick-set with a neck tattooed with a cross coated in red flames. He was bald but wore fine white and red robes of silk and cotton, as well as a long, groomed beard of black curls. There didn't appear to be any weapons on his belt or back, but he wore a fire emblem badge over his heart.

'A priest of the Church of the Eternal Fire?' I questioned in my mind. 'He's a long way from Novigrad. Perhaps trying the spread his faith, but they don't usually go to taverns for that, especially ones employing non-humans.'

The she-elf didn't show any expression at the priest's appearance. 'Either she's not surprised to see a visiting priest of the Eternal Fire. Or was expecting his visit.'

Looking back down at my mug, and trying to remain inconspicuous, I take a sip as the priest finally speaks. 'I see you're still here, hmmm? I've already told you, you and your kind are no longer welcome in Bodrog.' He states to her in a haughty Redanian tone.

'I've lived and worked in this tavern for ten years. Never stirred up trouble. Paid my taxes. Always be polite to my customers. So you have some gall to come into this establishment, without any authority, and claim I must leave.' She says in a cold and scolding tone.

The man rolled his green eyes and mocked her quip with his right hand moving as though it were speaking.

In a sudden flash of insight, I reached for the folded parchment and hastily unfolded the short script written.

_Vatt'ghern_

_A man in red will arrive soon, I will pay you to defend me and kill him. He is a monster, do not be fooled by his appearance and words._

_Do this, I beseech you._

I quickly read the text and tuck it away into a trouser pocket. I then take a closer look at the man's features, crinkled in disgust as though he were tasting sourer milk. Closing my eyes, I sense the cold silver of my Wolf School Medallion on my chest. It's not vibrating as it would usually do when facing a monster imbued with magic. 'That makes this either very easy or more dangerous than I'm prepared for.' I think to myself. 'It'll have to trust my gut, I suppose.'

'Hey, old man. Will, you just shut your trap, I'm trying to have a drink in peace.' I say to the priest, looking at him in the eyes, yellow cat eyes to green human eyes.

He appears affronted at first by disturbance and squints his eyes in hostility at me, I was probably a flea biting a lion in his mind. Taking in a breath, and likely about to launch into a tirade, he takes note of my eyes. His own eyes grow wide in shock and fear. I choose then to stand up and walk towards him, slowly reaching with my right hand over my shoulder and touching the hilt of my steel sword. That really makes the man's eyes grow as wide as plates.

Backing away from me and towards the door, stumbling and tripping over his own feet, he blubbers. 'Mutant...Sorcery...Black Magic...you...you cannot harm a man of the cloth. The law forbids such actions on pain of twenty lashes!' His voice is high now, no longer the low cocky voice portraying the arrogance and self-assuredness he'd had only moments before.

'Don't you know priest, Witchers feel no pain. We're no more civilised than the monsters we kill for coin. And you know, monsters aren't always hideous beasts, they can look as normal, and as human, as you or I.' I taunt, edging closer to the man, pulling out part of my blade for extra show.

The man's eyes appear to bug out at what I've said, no longer trying to show any confidence he turns heel and runs through the open door. Another patron walks over and shuts the door before giving me a nod, then moving back towards his game of Dice Poker. Feeling overall satisfied with my actions, I sit back in front of my pint and sip the honey brew.

'I'd thought you would kill the wretch. That is what I'd asked of you to do, for good money too.' She said in a low tone, aiming a detested look at me. 'Sure he's gone now, but next time he won't be alone now that he knows a vatt'ghern is nearby.'

I shrug at her and reach into my cotton shirt, taking out the letters which Geralt had bequeathed, including my own notes made from the cave where the Centipeid had made its nest. Placing the Elder Speech separate to the Common speech, I quickly looked over parchment for anything interesting. One of then has a long manifest of the cargo being transported in a baggage train from Nizair. 'The train must have been attacked along the way, and at least one person was killed.' I think to myself, placing the stained text separate to the rest of the pile

Another letter was a personal message being sent from Temaria's Queen, Bienvenu La Louve, to Cintra's King, Corbett, on the souring relations between the two kingdoms. The Queen expressed distaste at Corbett's actions as of late, showing a _low aptitude for statecraft_ and _an undignified expression of lust amongst the court._ If there he wouldn't rein in on corruption and invest more time into his foreign alliances, he'd _find his kingdom alone in a very hostile world, without allies to call upon for aid._

'Well that's a threat if I've ever heard one,' I think, furrowing my brow, 'and the She-Wolf of Temaria doesn't make idle threats. I didn't think the King had pushed his allies this far towards hostilities. Their forces are strong, but it will be Cintra's people and the Yaruga delta that would suffer the most if a war would break out.' Though we Witchers actually do well after wars, as battlefields naturally attract all manner of necrophages to feast, nest and reproduce. War simply causes hardship and the loss of loved ones in the best of cases. Other times, famine and disease spread, leading to revolts and people turning to banditry, merely trying to survive until the next spring.

After a few moments of pondering, broken in between with sips of my pint, I look up at the barkeep. 'What're you called?' I asked, curious about this she-elf and what her story was with the Eternal Fire priest.

She seemed a little taken aback at the question but did answer after a short pause, looking at me with an equally curious gaze. 'I'm called Mirthran. And what are you called? So that I don't have to call you Witcher or Vatt'ghern throughout the night.'

I nod, it is an easy request to agree to. 'I'm called Eskel. I was told I was named that by my Grandmaster when I was his Child of Surprise.'

She nods in understanding, not asking a follow-up question. So instead I give her one. 'By the way, your sign says the 'Speaking Friends Tavern' in everyday speech. But underneath is Elder Speech, why does it say another name entirely?'

Mirthran raises her left eyebrow in surprise but then smiles and nods. 'It's to symbolise that all loners are welcome here. All those without a den or a pack to call home. For one tree is just a tree, but many trees create a forest.' She replies in a sing-song tone, showing a more generous amount of passion for her workplace than I'd expected.

'That's a bit of an odd phrase, but the meaning is easy to understand.' I think and sip my ale, noticing I'm nearing the bottom of the mug. 'It's always a good feeling to find a place to belong. The world is a cruel and terrible place, yet exceptionally beautiful as well when you can find a place to call _home._' That thought brings memories of Kaer Morhen to mind and a calm smile to my face.

'Now then!' she announces, placing both of her nimble hands on the table and leaning forward towards me, startling me but I don't let it show. 'I can see you have some parchment with Elder Speech runes. It just so happens that I could translate them for you...for a price of course. Hells, I'll even pay you afterwards.' She tells me with a sadistic grin, staring intensely into my eyes,

I cross my arms over my chest with rejection in mind. Leaning backwards, I'm about to say as much, opening my mouth to explain, when Mirthran holds up her right hand to my face. 'I know what you're about to say, I've dealt with members of your guild before. But this man isn't a simple dh'oinne. Don't you carry your steel sword specifically for killing non-magical monsters too?'

I snap my mouth shut, mulling over her words in my mind. Her tone is cold, with icy intensity. This was about more than everyday harassment, apparently. Finally sighing, I shake my head. 'Okay, Mirthran, tell me your story with this priest. I am no mercenary, or Cat School Witcher, and won't kill a man without a good cause.

But first, please pour me another pint, I have a feeling I'll need it.'


	5. 1271 Rivia

Lyria 1271

Queen Meve's private quarters is about as I had expected. The tapestries on the stone walls were resplendent in the colours of her two Kingdoms, but held more Lyrian symbols, with Meve's ancestors riding into battle or knighting essential members of their court.

A grand hearth took centre stage in front of a few richly embroidered chairs, which did not appear used all that often. Reynard, Meve and I found ourselves, in front of an ornately carved cherry desk., its edges engraved with small lions roaring and loaded crossbows, as if from a legendary battle. Covering its polished top is a large paper map of the current borders of the Northern Kingdoms, laid across its length with edges curving upwards. Smaller stacks of papers lay on the table corners written in a flowery and lightly cursive script, likely from a woman or feminine man. There are also letters with a bold blotchy script, more familiar with dwarvish writing or a man with poor handwriting.

Atop the map sat dozens of figurines placed strategically, a half dozen large Golden Suns stationed along the southern banks of the Yuruga, from the former city of Cintra to Riedbrune. Kite Shields bearing the state monarchy's emblems seemed scattered across the North. White Lillies in Temarian strongholds, Black Unicorns in at their southern boundary of the Pontar Valley, White Eagles in Tretogor and Ghelibol, and a Red and Gold Chevron at Vergen.

'I imagine being on the Path, as you Witchers call it, you have not been keeping up with current events. Have you, Eskel?' Meve enquired nonchalantly, looking up from the map she had been studying with a critical eye.

'I have heard a few things in taverns and from wayfarers, but what is truth, and gossip can be difficult to decern.' I respond cordially, feeling no need to explain what I do know for a fact, and what I suspect to be true. As I predicted, she goes on.

Meve claps her hands together with a sarcastic grin. 'Well then let me be the one to verify that currently, we are knee-deep in shit, and sinking fast.' Pointing to Temaria, where a figurine of Foltest is on its side, laying over La Valette Castle she explains.

'A few months ago King Foltest was assassinated while besieging a rebelling lord's stronghold. Our mutual associate Geralt was there when it happened, as his bodyguard, and ended up blamed for the whole incident.'

My lips form into a tight line and nod at her words. Having heard of the same thing while travelling it is no surprise word had reached her. She turns her head to me, with a left eyebrow raised in a probing expression.

'Do you have nothing to say to the claim your brother is a kingslayer? No vehement defence, no rousing speech of the honourable nature of your friend, and how he would sooner plunge a blade into himself than to lay one upon a divinely anointed monarch?'

I simply shake my head, my arms remaining crossed and standing resolutely in place without cringing at her words.

'If Geralt killed Foltest, he had his reasons. However, I also do not believe he assassinated Foltest. Another assassin tried to kill him nearly a year ago, and Geralt prevented it within the throne-room itself. That is why Foltest kept Geralt around, and so Geralt had a lot of time and opportunities to kill Foltest, why didn't he do it long ago if that had been his plan?' I asked formally, in my deep, gravely voice.

Meve appeared surprised that I would express as much as I had. '_She was expecting only a few curt words._' I thought. '_Perhaps that's what Geralt may have done, or gave a bitter monologue, but she has forgotten that not all Witchers act the same. Moreover, I'm not Geralt._'

After a moment of pause, she nodded with a small smile. Then her lips formed a hard frown and pointed to the figurine of the King of Aidrn, who was on his side.

'A month before that whole mess, Demavend the Third, alone his retinue were killed while sailing his pleasure boat across the Yuruga. The ship was somehow frozen solid, then sunk with everyone massacred as far as we can tell.

Now we have two of the four dominant Northern Kingdoms without reigning monarchs, these two also being the ones closest to the borders of the Nilfguarrdian held territories. At the beginning of spring, several large contingents of Nilfguarddian soldiers marched up from the south, and have stationed themselves along the southern banks of the Yuruga.'

She pointed to the Nilfgarrdian Golden Suns figurines.

'Based on some preliminary scouting we have determined there are six large groups, their strength combined being around two hundred thousand. They are well supplied and drill every day but seemed ordered to hold their positions. For some reason, they are not attacking yet, even with the current crisis in the Northern Realms. While these numbers are a third smaller than what they had the last war, the North is not ready for any kind of large scale combat.'

Meve looked up from her map and met my stoic gaze with a harsh stare, green eyes aflame.

'I do not enjoy being in a position where I must guess my enemies movements. We have no information and what Emhyr is up to and what his battle plans are. So I'm preparing for the worst.'

I nodded and gestured with my head towards the door we would come through. 'That is why you have got the craftsmen all working as though it were war-time?'

She barked a laugh at me and smiled as though snarling like a wolf.

'Do not play me for a fool, and you can tell all too well that we have only got a temporary cease-fire with the Nilfgaardians. I do not take the Peace of Cintra for any more than an agreement not to fight until one of us starts it. If Emyr wants to invade the North again, then nothing will stop him from seeing the control of the Continent he has always wished for!'

She shouted, banging her fist against the table, making the map shake.

'Radovid does nothing but watches things unfold from Tretogor, and Hansalt is now taking this opportunity to annex the Lormark as his family has ambitiously craved for generations. Then instead of looking to his allies and the threat of the Blackclads, Prince Stennis is trying to impress the people by negotiating with Henselt and some warrior woman called Saskia!'

She hits the table again, this time causing some pieces to fall on their sides.

Reynard, who had been standing at the Queen's right side throughout her explanation, then stepped closer to her and placed his gauntleted hand on her should. She stilled for a moment, before blowing out a breath of air, her shoulders slumping as she relaxed the facade of the strong, iron-willed Queen, her people knew her as, for the moment.

'I suppose you did not bring me here for my own warfare experience, did you?' I said sarcastically, with a small chuckle, trying to ease the remaining tension.

Reynard smiled at that phrasing. 'Well, it would not be the first time you have involved yourself in tactics and strategy.'

I shook my head. 'You can choose what you believe, General Odo. My secrets are my own, and so are yours.' I said, indicating to his closeness with the Queen.

He understands my meaning and nods, removing his hand from her shoulder and taking a step away. Meve looks back at Reynard and sighs before facing me again. 'Your discretion is appreciated Eskel. Reynard may know more of you, but even I have heard tales of your under-reported exploits. As well as common enough traits you have shown to warrant a respectable reputation.' She says with a touch of respect in her tone.

'_I wonder what she has heard about me. I never thought I'd be part of the gossip in royal courts. Geralt has, but the subject of Witchers has always seemed a bit taboo for nobility._' I thought.

Reynard does pick up on the mood and tries to break off into another subject. 'My Queen, we should probably mention to Master Eskel why it is you have wished his audience. I believe this talk of reputation and battlefield strategy may not be the most healthy subjects for him.'

Meve looks at me for a few more moments, her green eyes looking over my doublet, swords, scars and eyes. Her gaze is quizzical, appearing to be looking for something essential but bearly perceptible. She either finds what she is looking for or does not, and nods with her mouth becoming taut and brow creasing.

'Four months ago, a most trusted friend disappeared. Since the end of the Second Nilfgaardian War, he has lived a true noble's life, looking to his ample fields and livestock at daytime, attending banquets and feasts come the eve. However, one night for an unknown reason, he vanished in the night. He grabbed his bow and quiver, saddled his favourite mount and disappeared without a trace from his stead. Nobody has heard from him since, and the men I sent to follow any traces are stumped. Even bloodhounds lost the scent while tracking through some nearby woods.'

I remain quiet and nod while Meve explains the situation. When I feel she has said her piece, I ask some follow-up questions. 'Do you know of any reason he would wish to leave his life behind? Nobles rarely take a fancy to the life of a wayfarer, hermit or backwoods hunter.'

Reynard answers for her with an uncomfortable couch, appearing to be hesitant about something. 'Well you see Eskel, Gascon was not always the lord he is now. His family, the Brossards, rebelled against the Late King Reginald. The family were all decimated, all tried and hung, except for Gascon himself. He was a bandit up until the war, after defeated in battle and imprisoned by the Queen, he released her while trying to escape.'

'Not without a few uncourteous proposals, and small request. A small price to pay to leave with Reynard and a few loyal men-at-arms from the Tower of Lyria.' Meve cut in with a smirk.

'He turned out to be a true ally and experienced commando while operating in the forests. Trained the troops to be more versatile in combat, and how to best do damage to enemy forces with minimal losses through skirmishing, Guerilla tactics. While I have never said it to his face, he is a gifted commander of men with a tactical mind for long-term warfare than small scale battles.' Reynard said with grudging respect.

'He sounds like an...interesting man.' I say plainly, feeling that I was likely an understatement. 'And are you sure he did not merely wish to return to his old life? _It wouldn't be the first time a man had gone back to old habits._'I thought

Meve shook her head. 'No, Gascon may have been a brigand and has committed some crimes in his past. But when it came to the moment to choose a side, he followed me. I made him a duke for that reason, as well as to rectify some of my late husband's mistakes.'

Reynard cut in with his opinion. 'I may have despised the man, not trusting his intentions when he first joined us after escaping Lyria. Nevertheless...proved himself worthy of trust. Except in games of cards, the man is a sly magician, so never bet against him' He finished with a chuckle, talking with some experience.

Meve smiled at the comment, radiant and warm. '_There must be some good memories associated with their card games._' I thought with a quick smirk.

'But Gascon has changed... okay he has not changed really. However, he did take his duties seriously and even accepting his role in court as commander of the Lyrian Special Forces. His former bandits have shown great promise in unorthodox methods of combat.' Meve expressed with pride.

Reynard nodded. 'He has a superior mind for such thinking, and I will give him that.' He said in acquiescence. 'It's always valuable to identify those who can competently do a job better than you. Being a General and Advisor are my strengths, but not so much with skirmishes and lightning raids.'

'He has taken the responsibility seriously, helping to route any Scoia'tael out of our borders. I do not wish meaningless harm to the Elves, but if they are hostile and harm my citizens, then they will be treated the same as any bandit or murderer.' Meve said resolutely, then cracked a smile. 'Also I know he has been recently married, to a noblewoman I had introduced to him. So with a child on the way, I cannot imagine he would willingly leave his lady's side for an extended amount of time.'

I nod respectfully. '_It depends on how happy that marriage is, as you don't often turn down the insistence of a queen._' I thought doubtfully but schooled my face so as not to express the thought.

'That makes some sense. If you can show me the directions to the estate Gascon had last visited I would imagine I could find a trace to follow. But why, if you do not mind me asking, have you asked me to find this man? I am a Witcher. Usually, I hunt monsters.' I state matter-of-factly.

Meve makes a dismissive gesture with her hand and shakes her head.

'Yes, yes, yes, I have heard it all already. You are neutral, and you hunt monsters for money, you carry two swords, I understand Eskel. However, I also am aware of the dedication Geralt showed in the search for his child. Despite impossible odds against him, he did find her.

Now Witchers may be the by-product of experimenting sorcerers, merely a breed of mutated humans. Yet when they wish to do so, they can accomplish impossible tasks. And I believe that if you say you can find Gascon, then you will.'

'For a price.' I state, making it clear this would not be utterly out of the goodness of my own heart.

Meve sighs and nods with a smile. 'Of course, I would not have it any other way. When I have found Gascon and returned him, I will pay out in full. For now, this of this an advanced payment.'

Meve motions to Reynard and he opens one of the cupboards in the side of the desk, pressing a hidden lever underneath a lion's head to open the bearly perceivable door. Its edges perfectly fitting into place after the removal of a small pouch, and on the first glace would be easily missed by ordinary eyes.

Reynard hands me the pouch, and I can feel the weight as well as the clinking sound of metal coins. '_Not bad, this should at least cover the repairs and ingredients I need._' I think with a nod.

'There is more where that came from when you have completed this contract. And while you are at it, you can also deal with the wraiths haunting a number of our fields. They have been plaguing the commonfolk for a few years, but are only truly dangerous when disturbed, and during twilight or noon. I imagine you know how best to deal with such creatures?'

I think it over before nodding. 'That will also cost you. These will be the more challenging of the wraiths. They have not plagued maidens, luckily for you.'

'What would happen if they were these plague maidens?' Reynard asked in a curious tone, his left eyebrow raised.

'You would have Catriona plague victims on top of everything else.' I state, causing Reynard to shift uneasily and Meve to shiver. The plague had affected every kingdom in the North at one point, though not nearly as widespread now its long-term effects could still be seen.

Nodding at their reasonable reactions, I cut into their train of thought. 'But I will not take on these monsters for anything less than fifty ducats each.'

Meve looked up, from likely morbid memories playing out, then nodded quickly at that number with a satisfied smile. 'Deal.'

'_Fuck._' I thought. '_I could have got more than what I'd asked. Should have asked what they were willing to pay first._' I sigh at the realisation but nod as it had been my choice and was still a reasonable payment.

'How many noonwraiths and nightwraiths are we talking about?' I choose to ask, mentally going over my potion, oil and bomb inventories.

'With help from the court mage, we have been able to deal with most ordinary wraiths, but these noonwraiths have been far more dangerous. I have had several good men injured and crippled by its attacks. There are three locations in the fields to the North, a few villages put to the torch by the Blackclads, residents included. An ugly scene as you can imagine and gouls lingered afterwards. Thankfully they are less of a problem with the well-trained veterans in active service, and the reserves.'

Reynard nodded at Meve's explanation and took a small map of the local area out from under the larger Continental map. He pointed to a couple of shaded regions several miles north of Lyria, then a hamlet to the south about half a day's ride away.

'At a small rural Abby, the priestesses of Melitele were butchered, along with local unmarried young women seeking sanctuary. There are, Nightwraiths I believe you call them, which lurk in ruins. Meve wishes to rebuild the Abby when the area is safer, so be sure to deal with anything else dangerous which may linger in the area. Simply take up any extra payment with the Queen's treasurer or his assistant.'

I nodded my confirmation and agreement, clasping wrists with Reynard after he rolled up the map and handed it to me.

'Now if that is all...' I began when the door to the room swung open suddenly, causing my instincts to take over. I reached for my steel blade with my right hand, and in less than a second, the handle gripped in my palm with the point facing the intruder. My left hand was beginning to trace a sign for Quen when Reynard pushed my hand down before I could finish the spell, his two arms pinning my formerly outstretched arm to my side. '_He is fast, a good bodyguard for the Queen. Swift reflexes._' I thought, impressed by his speed even while in armour.

When my mind had caught up with my body, I could now see that my target turned out to be a short young girl, her golden blond hair in a long waterfall down her back and flying backwards as a cape as she ran into the outstretched arms of Meve. She was wearing a green summer dress with tan leather slippers, and a small golden circlet on her head.

'Mummy! Mummy! I heard a Witcher has come to Lyria! Like the one you knighted? Can we go and find him, please?' The girl chattered excitedly, looking up at the Queen with an expectant look and wide grin, showing a glowing white smile.

Behind the young girl comes a young she-elf wearing a long blue dress, matching her eyes and highlighting her dark brown hair. The stereotypical pointed ears, and stunning features, are a bit muted in her compared to a full-blooded elf. Less petite and buxomer, with short cheekbones rather than the longer ones indicative of the Elder Race. She arrives breathless, and her freckled cheeks flushed from the exertion and embarrassment.

'I am so sorry your majesty, one of the guards was talking about the arrival of a Witcher and...' She is about to continue her nervous rambling but ceases by the Queen's raised hand.

'Now now, Lillianna, you are not to blame. It appears my daughter needs a lesson on controlling her curiosity more and not barging into important meetings.' Meve says, meeting the blond girl's equally green gaze with a stern look. But that hard look quickly melts and is replaced with one of motherly affection.

The girl sees this change and reaches her arms upwards, then scooped into Meve's arms. After a peck on the cheek, causing the girl to giggle, Meve looks back at me, seeing that my sword still is drawn but the point has lowered to the floor.

'I suppose I should congratulate you on your quick reactions, but it is unnecessary in this instance. Let me introduce my daughter, Corvina, Princess of Lyria and Rivia, and future heir to my kingdom.' She kisses the girl's hair with a warm smile. 'Corvina, meet Eskel, Witcher of Kaer Morhen, Master of the School of the Wolf.'


End file.
